The Wedding Crasher by Mia Sosa

the unbiased truth.”
Okay, well, when he puts it that way, how can I deny him? Maybe if I stick
to the facts, I’ll be able to get through this. Meeting Dean’s gaze straight on, I
blurt out the highlights. “Ella was standing on the landing between two
floors. He—”
“Tyler.”
“Yes, Tyler. So Tyler was telling her not to do something. Not marry you,
I guess. Said she would regret it.” I wring my hands. “Then she said she
loved him. And she asked if he was finally ready to admit his feelings for her.
He didn’t respond. I didn’t hang around much after that. Is this enough to get
the picture?” My voice is strung tight; one good tug and it’ll unravel. “I’m
not lying, Dean.”
“I believe you. I have no reason not to.” He runs both hands through his
once perfectly styled hair and drops his arms in defeat. “What a mess.”
Wanting to comfort him, I step forward and gently caress his forearm. He
looks down at the place where our bodies connect, his eyes narrowing on that
spot as if the answer to this wedding-day conundrum can be found there.
Realizing I have no right to touch him, I jerk my hand away. “Sorry. I didn’t
mean to overstep.”
I’m apologizing for much more than invading his personal space. I hope he
knows that.
“Don’t worry about it. I appreciate your concern in all of this.” He draws
his shoulders back, erasing any sign of the dejected stance he held moments
ago. “I should talk to Ella.” Blowing out a long breath, he unknots his tie and
lets it hang around his neck. “I have to go.” He strides to the door and opens
it. Before he leaves, he turns around, then tilts his head as he studies me. “Are
you going to be okay?”
Am I going to be okay? What an odd thing to ask. I should be the least of
his worries. Giving him a shaky smile, I motion for him to carry on. “I’ll be
fine. Go do what you need to do. And, Dean—”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, Lina knows where to find me.”
“I think you’ve done enough,” he says, his lips quirked up in a playful grin.
Groaning, I pretend to stab a dagger through my heart.
“Kidding,” he says, bowing slightly as he backs out of the room. “I can
handle it from here.”
He’s right: I’m just the catalyst; the rest is up to him.